“I’ll be all right,” she told him. “It’s not like I haven’t lost friends before.”
Scott hated that she thought that way. And that she was right. She had lost friends; they all had. And it was a testament to how terrible their jobs were that that had become their normal. And there was another dead person to add to their list, too: Damon Hartley. He grimaced as the thought of their boss crossed his mind. He hadn’t told Riley or Zachariah that Damon was dead. Damon was their father; if anyone deserved to know what had happened, it was the two of them.
He waited until Zachariah had returned with a fresh set of clothing for him and he’d gotten dressed—the shirt ended up being a little too tight across the shoulders and chest, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t work with—before he turned to face them both. “Before we do anything else, there’s something you two need to know,” he started.
“Oh, please,” Zachariah groaned, slouching against the checkout counter. “I can’t take any more bad news today.”
Scott could agree with the sentiment completely. Despite that, he soldiered on, not looking either of them in the eyes as he folded his arms and stared at the floor. “When he had me in that basement, Brandon showed me something that you need to know about.” He hesitated, not sure how to say the next part. He’d never had to break this news to someone, and he didn’t know how to begin to choose the words for this. “Your dad…Damon…he’s dead.”
“He’s…” Riley trailed off, shaking her head like she didn’t quite believe him.
“How?” Zachariah demanded.
“They blew his house up,” he said. “With him in it. Brandon had video of it.” There was a flicker of pain in Riley’s eyes, but it quickly disappeared, replaced by a blank look that Scott had seen in her eyes a couple of times before: that shark-look of empty emotionlessness that she seemed to use as a shield against the world when it tried to hurt her. He wanted to reach out to her, but something in her body language told him to not even think about it, so instead, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his borrowed blue jeans and said, “I’m sorry, guys.”
To Scott’s surprise, Riley simply shrugged. “I know this should bother me more than it does, but…well, you know,” she said, her tone casual. He gave her an incredulous look, and she held her hands up defensively. “What? He was only my father for a hot minute, and he was my boss before that. Am I supposed to fall on the floor and weep over yet another death in my life?”
“I’d think you’d have some sort of emotional reaction over our father’s death,” Zachariah replied. For his part, he had an appropriate level of sadness on his face at the news, and his voice cracked a little as he spoke.
“Why?” she asked. “He was no father to me. He was absent pretty much my entire life. And yours, too, for that matter! Why am I supposed to feel bad for a man who so obviously didn’t want anything to do with me?”
“Riley,” Zachariah started, but Scott shook his head and put out a hand to stop him.
“Don’t,” he said. “She’ll come around in her own time. Everyone does.” He ignored Riley’s scowl and continued. “We need to focus on the more immediate problems that we can do something about. Where did they take Ashton?”
The despair in Zachariah’s eyes intensified. “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t see which way they went.”
Scott grabbed up weapons and other evidence that could lead to them and started for the door. “Come on, then. We need to start tracking him down immediately.”
Zachariah’s hand on his arm stopped him. “We can’t.”
“What?” Riley exclaimed. “Why not?”
“Because Ashton told me not to,” he said, and the strained quality of his voice suggested this was the last sort of order he wanted to obey. “Because if we try to follow him, he might end up dead, and we don’t stand a chance against the people who have him.”
“Do you usually give up so easily?” Riley asked. “You haven’t struck me as the type. Hell, if anything, Tuscaloosa told me that.”
“I’m not giving up,” Zachariah argued. “I just…” He sighed and pushed his hair back from his face. “I’m trying to respect his wishes while at the same time figure out a way around them.”
“What exactly did he say?” Scott asked.
“He said, ‘Don’t come after me.’”
“Don’t come after me,” Scott repeated thoughtfully. “So we shouldn’t go after him.”
Riley caught on. “He didn’t say anything about going after that werewolf,” she said. “Or Ahm.”
“We can’t attack Ahm,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s way too strong for us to take on right now, even if the three of us worked together. I don’t think I’m in control of myself at this point, and Riley’s abilities are haphazard at best. I think you’re the only one who has some grasp of what you’re capable of, and even then, it’s questionable if you’d be able to handle her, since she can apparently control you to some extent.”
“What about the werewolf, though?” Riley asked. “Z, you and Ashton killed one of those three years ago, you said? You were just a couple of guys then. If you could kill one, couldn’t the three of us?”
“I don’t see why not,” Zachariah said. “It’s difficult, but it isn’t impossible.” He glanced at his watch then added, “We need to get out of here. While we figure out which direction that bitch and her cronies headed in, I’ll give you guys a more thorough run down on how to kill werewolves.”
“Wait,” Riley said, and she darted off deeper into the store.
“Riley, come back!” Scott called. “We don’t have time!”
She ignored him, disappearing into the darkness near the back of the store. Scott almost went after her, but before he could make up his mind whether he should, she returned, carrying a thick, leather-bound book so heavy that she grasped it with both hands. Embossed on the cover was the word “Legendarium.” “I thought maybe it could be important,” she said, tightening her grip on the book.
Scott nodded and offered her a hand. She looked back at the three bodies lying on the cold floor, deep sadness appearing in her eyes before vanishing just as quickly. Then she slid her hand in his and let him lead her out the door.
Sixteen
The ride to the house outside New Orleans—the same house Scott had been held captive in—had been a silent one, though no less nerve-wracking for Ashton. He’d been stuffed into the backseat and forced to ride beside Ahm, who’d spent the entire trip touching and caressing him in any way she could as Brandon glared at him from the front passenger seat. It’d been the most uncomfortable drive he’d ever taken.
Now, though, he sat in a bare-bones bedroom lit only by a battery-operated camping lantern, alone, stewing over what would happen next. He’d expected to be dragged to some dark room, tied to a chair, and beaten to a bloody pulp, much in the same way Scott had been. Not this. Ever since he’d walked in the front door, he’d been treated almost like royalty, and he didn’t understand it. Brandon had even made an aggressive move toward him at one point, like he’d intended to hit him, and Ahm had struck Brandon so hard he’d fallen to the floor.
“You’re not to lay a hand on him,” she’d told Brandon. “If you do, I’ll personally rip your intestines out and show them to you.” It hadn’t been an empty threat, judging by the way Brandon paled.
That only made Ashton’s curiosity heighten. What importance did he have in Ahm’s mind? She obviously held him in high regard, and he didn’t know why.
There was a polite tap on the door. Ashton stood from the bed, limping to the other side of it defensively. There was one more tap, then the door eased open and Ahm stepped inside, a warm smile on her face. Despite the pleasantness of her expression, Ashton’s heart started hammering wildly in his chest, like a rabbit’s when cornered by a predator.
“Is everything in here comfortable enough for you?” she asked, pushing the door closed behind her. She held a change of clothes and a couple of towels in
her arms.
What is she, maid service? Ashton thought caustically, but he maintained a cool politeness, not wanting to push his luck. “It’s fine,” he said shortly.
“Good,” Ahm said. She watched him for a moment then extended her bundle of clothes and towels to him. “There’s an attached bathroom,” she said, motioning to a closed door. “You will bathe. You should be clean.”
Frowning, Ashton reluctantly came around the bed and took the clothes from her. She pointed to the bathroom and, feeling like he didn’t have much choice, he started in that direction, internally cringing as she picked up the lantern and followed him into the small room. She set the lantern on the sink beside two gallon jugs of water, shut the door, and leaned against it, motioning for him to proceed.
Scowling, Ashton turned, slammed the pile of fabric on the vanity, and said, “You realize I’m not attracted to women, right? And no matter how much you sexually harass me, that’s not going to change.”
“I’m aware,” she said. “If I hadn’t already known, you would have made it very clear with your little display back in the city.”
Since she didn’t seem inclined to leave, Ashton stripped his shirt off, turning his back on her to hide the worst of the scarring. It was reflex more than anything else; he’d never lost the self-consciousness he felt over the sight of the multitude of scars that littered his body from the vampire attack two years before. There were scars on his back too, he knew, but they weren’t quite as bad as the ones that adorned his chest, stomach, thighs, and face. He folded his shirt, trying to steady his shaking hands, and set it on the vanity before going to work on his shoes, socks, and jeans. Once he was naked, he reached for one of the water jugs, determined to get cleaned up as quickly as possible so he could get dressed and get away from Ahm’s gaze.
A cool hand against his shoulder stopped him. He closed his eye, drew in a deep breath, and faced her. “Who did this to you?” she asked, looking him up and down.
“The question is what did this to me, not who,” Ashton replied, glaring at her. “It was a vampire. And why do you even care, anyway? Why are you talking to me like this? Treating me like this?”
“What would you prefer?” she asked. “That I have you beaten? Tortured?”
“That would be the regular course of things when I’m taken by people who are generally opposed to me and my friends,” he admitted.
“The regular course of things won’t be happening here,” she said. “You are entirely too special to bring to harm.”
“Why am I special?” he persisted. “Why are you so interested in me?”
“You don’t know?” Ahm dragged a hand along his upper arm, smoothing it up to his shoulder, looking as awe-struck as a sculptor would be if he’d been allowed to touch Michelangelo’s David. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw you. It’d been so long…I wasn’t sure if I recognized you, if you really were who I thought you were. Where have you been?”
Ahm’s speech only left him more confused than before. “What? Have we met before or something?”
Ahm stared at him more closely, and her eyes widened with genuine surprise. “You really don’t remember,” she murmured.
“Lady, I was diagnosed with retrograde amnesia when I was nineteen,” he told her. “I don’t remember anything from before that. So if I knew you before fourteen years ago—and I don’t know why I would, considering you’re a bitch from Hell itself—then I can assure you I don’t remember you now.”
Ahm took a moment to digest his words, and once she had, she gave him a brisk, single nod. “We’ll have to fix that. For now, you get clean. We’ll have a discussion about your past—and your future—once we sit down for dinner.” She walked to the door but paused before opening it. Turning, she addressed him once more. “I think, once I remind you of who and what you are, you’re going to end up being the greatest weapon I could possibly have asked for.”
She didn’t give Ashton a chance to respond. She opened the door—exposing him to whoever happened to be standing beyond in the process—and walked out. Just before the door swung closed, Ashton heard Brandon say, “We just got a call from the pilot. Wheels up in sixty.”
Ahm stuck her head back into the room and said, “You have thirty minutes.” She shut the door; the snick of the lock sliding home sounded thunderous to his ears.
There was no running water, which was no surprise, so Ashton jammed the stopper in the sink and dumped a gallon of water into it. Washing up was a cold, uncomfortable job, and he didn’t understand why Ahm was so insistent that he be clean, but far be it for him to argue with her, not when she held all the cards.
He’d just finished drying his damp skin off when he turned around to find a slender woman with long blond hair and dressed in tight black pants and a tight black vest sitting on the edge of the bathtub. “Holy shit!” he gasped, stumbling away from her. He collided with the edge of the sink and reflexively covered himself with the towel he still held. He hadn’t heard her come in; there was no way she could have snuck in past him. And she hadn’t been there when he and Ahm had entered. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, just before recognition dawned. He knew her from somewhere. He was positive he did. He’d seen her before, very recently, but he couldn’t place her.
The woman pressed one thin, pale finger to her lips, her eyes darting to the closed bathroom door. “Not so loud,” she said. “She might hear, and then where will we be?”
Ashton dropped his voice obligingly. “Who are you?” he repeated.
“You don’t recognize me?” she asked. “I’ve only been showing up in your dreams the past…well, I’m not sure how long it’s been on Earth. But you won’t sleep, so I had to come to you like this, which is much riskier.” When he didn’t respond, still trying to comprehend what the hell she was talking about, she added, “I’m Sera. And you’re Ashton.”
“It’s official,” Ashton murmured. “I’ve gone insane.”
“Maybe,” Sera acknowledged, “but that’s beside the point.” She ran a hand through her hair, and as she moved, Ashton caught sight of wicked-looking knives with long, curved blades in an odd sling on her back. Scythes, he recognized. He’d seen photos of them before, but it wasn’t something he’d have ever chosen as a weapon. “I’ve come here to warn you.”
“Warn me?” Ashton repeated. His face suddenly felt numb and cold, like all the blood had rushed out of it. “About what?”
Sera blew out a breath and looked away from him for a moment. He noticed that her eyes were a bright, icy cold blue, so much like his own that, for a split second, he had the irrational thought that they were related. “Oh, I’m going to be in so much trouble for this,” she said, loud enough for him to hear, though she was clearly speaking to herself. She looked back at him, and her eyes were a little watery. “I’m not supposed to tell you any of this,” she said. “It could potentially alter fate and destiny and screw up so much of Father’s plans. That’s why I was having to come to you in your dreams, try to build up some trust so when I told you what I’m about to tell you, you’d believe me. I’ve been watching you for the past month, ever since Ananael possessed you. That’s what brought you to our attention, anyway. We’d lost track of you before that, but when Ananael possessed you, it was like he’d slapped a massive tracking beacon right on your forehead.”
“Sera, you’re not making much sense,” he said. “Get to the point before I put my clothes on and walk out of this delusion.”
“Willingly?” Sera asked. “Right into Ahm’s arms? I doubt that.” She brushed her hair back from her forehead, and the serious look on her face grew even darker, harder. “Tomorrow night, at 7:27pm, you will die,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“You will die tomorrow night at exactly 7:27pm,” Sera repeated. “We don’t normally tell people the date and time of their deaths, but…” She trailed off then looked away from him.
Ashton wasn’t sure he believed her. Hell, she probably wasn’t even real. �
��Who are you?” he asked again. “My guardian angel or something? And why are you telling me this?” Sera suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Holy shit. You are, aren’t you?”
“Most people usually insist that angels don’t exist,” Sera said.
“Yeah, well most people haven’t spent several days walking around with an angel wearing their body like a suit. And you still haven’t said why you’re telling me this.”
Sera shrugged with one shoulder, like telling him when he was going to die was a casual, everyday topic of conversation. “I like you,” she said. “You’re strong, you’re tough, and you’re…special. I mean, obviously you’re special, because Father picked up to be one of His Watchers, and He wouldn’t pick just anyone.” She bit her lip, then her eyes met his. “And I’m telling you this because it’s not set in stone. Not yet. You have the opportunity to make the choice to avoid your death and live for a long, long time. But it will, of course, be fully up to you. In the end, you may not want to avoid it.”
Ashton wanted to question her on that point, to seek clarification, but there was a tap on the door, and Ahm called out, “Are you ready in there? We need to leave.”
Ashton scowled at the door and turned back to Sera. She’d stood from the edge of the tub at the sound of the knock, and her eyes were narrowed, her mouth drawn into a thin line of hatred and anger. She looked like she was barely restraining herself from launching through the door to go on the attack. Though he knew it was probably a dangerous thing to do, Ashton pressed a hand against her forearm, shaking his head. He didn’t know anything about her other than what he’d learned of her in his dreams; he didn’t know how strong she was or if she was even capable of defeating Ahm in a fight, but it wasn’t an attempt in which he wanted to be caught in the crosshairs. She relaxed at his touch and gave him a nod of acknowledgment, then suddenly, between one blink of his eye and the next, she vanished.
The door opened a split second later, and Ahm stepped into the bathroom. She stopped short and looked him over. “You’re not even dressed yet,” she complained. She moved to the sink and shoved his clothes at him. “Hurry up. We’re going to be late.”
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